


Happy Together (春光乍洩)

by somedaysomewhere



Category: X1 (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Falling In Love, M/M, Slice of Life, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25544857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somedaysomewhere/pseuds/somedaysomewhere
Summary: What Seungyoun remembers is this: every collision felt like a shift. When he alights the train, he knows something has changed within him.
Relationships: Cho Seungyeon | Seungyoun/Han Seungwoo
Comments: 10
Kudos: 68
Collections: Different Pools Fic Fest





	Happy Together (春光乍洩)

**Author's Note:**

> • FOR PROMPT #013: Seungyoun develops a crush on a boy he's met exactly one time on the subway in the span of four subway stops. So he starts taking the subway at the same time every week to try and find the boy. It isn't until months later that he finally finds him again. •
> 
> (To the prompter, I hope you’ll like this hh)
> 
> NOTE: Mentions of M.O.L.A. crew are here! I used their birth names (Kyochang is Nathan and Hohyun is Hoho). For Colde, he is referred to as Heesu in this fic :)

_I can't see me loving nobody but you for all my life_  
_When you're with me, baby, the skies will be blue for all my life_

**day 001 ; or the end (but seungyoun doesn’t know it yet)**

At exactly five-thirty in the afternoon, Seungyoun boards the Line 2 subway train from Euljiro station, blasting jazz solos on his earphones to shut down the rest of the world. He steps in with his left foot first, mindful of the gap between the door and the platform, and then with his right, almost losing balance when a rushing passenger bumps into him. It doesn’t bother him at all however—with how often it happens, he’ll be more surprised to be left in peace. Fortunately, the train is less crowded on a Sunday, and he’s able to make his way inside without further disruptions.

What greets him are empty seats and people in casual clothing. It’s a bit unsettling honestly; he’s used to seeing open-mouthed sleepers, crammed employees and a terrifying amount of hair whorls. Chaos is often present along with full-blown confrontations, particularly when lines aren’t followed or toes are stepped on. Without the usual after-work rush, commuting feels foreign. It’s not something to complain about though—he can’t even remember the last time he had the luxury of personal space.

Legs numb from sitting all day, he forgoes the chairs to stand in front of a window instead. The yellow lights of the tunnel immediately settle on his skin, balancing the ghastly cast of the cabin’s white fluorescent. He yawns for the nth time. At seventy-two hours straight and counting, this is officially the longest he’s gone sleepless. His eyelids are heavy and close to shutting. If he doesn’t arrive home in the next two hours, he’ll probably drop dead in an alley somewhere. 

But all these ado aren’t for nothing. His first album, named Equal, is finally coming around after six months of preparation. With a few polishings, it should be ready for release. He’s worked night and day to ascertain its quality, refusing to settle for anything less than best. Every track is self-produced and refined to its highest potential. There’s just one song that needs more tweaking; frankly, he can’t pinpoint what’s off about it even after multiple listens. Is it the bridge? Something with the arrangement? Maybe he can try swapping lines and—

A tap on the shoulder interrupts his thoughts. Out of reflex, Seungyoun tucks his bag close to his body, wary about being approached. He quickly recalls the techniques he learned from self-defense trainings. If things go downhill, he can protect himself at least.

He removes one of his earphones before turning to the stranger. “Can I help you?,” he musters in his most impassive tone.

“I know this seems scary, but I just want to apologize for earlier,” the stranger says, bowing slightly. “I’m the one who bumped into you.”

 _He really went to him for that?_ Seungyoun doesn’t know whether to be overwhelmed or confused.

Despite being taller than him, the boy is far from intimidating. In fact, he looks smaller than his actual height, most likely because of his slouched posture and bent knees. His eyes are round and clear; their gaze free of the insinuations he previously assumed. Still, Seungyoun remains vigilant. One can never be too sure. “Ah. Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.”

“I should’ve been careful.”

“As I said, it’s no problem. I frequently take this line so I’ve been pushed in worse ways.”

“I’m not usually that hasty, but I had to get in or I’ll be late to my next commitment. I’m lucky it wasn’t an elderly.”

“Yeah. I’m a healthy adult. I’m not hurt, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“That’s good then.”

“Yeah. Good.”

The silence stretches on to the point of awkwardness. They don’t know each other at all, so unsurprisingly, they run out of things to say. Seungyoun fidgets with the belt loops of his jeans. While he’s adept in conversations, starting one is still overwhelming, especially if it’s with a person he just met.

Except that unlike him, this stranger isn’t shy about talking. He extends a pale hand coolly, showing off his forearm tattoo in the process. Rendered in colored ink, the flowers are as pretty as him. “I’m Seungwoo. You are?”

He returns the gesture. “Seungyoun.”

“Is it okay if I stay here?”

“Sure,” he answers reluctantly, pulling back. It’s not like he can turn him down. Well, _he can,_ but it’s unfair to dismiss him just because he’s being paranoid. “There are available seats though.”

“Eh, I’d rather stand. I can’t see the outdoors when I’m seated.”

“That’s relatable.”

“The rush hour becomes more tolerable when you stare at buildings, no? If there were fields in Seoul, that would’ve been perfect too. Anyway, don’t you think the passengers find us strange?”

“Why?”

“Because we’re standing despite the abundance of empty spaces. Maybe they’re wondering if our hips are already bad in spite of our age.” Seungwoo smiles then, the corners of his mouth lifting into a perfect curve. The bad lighting doesn’t diminish his handsome features even by a bit.

Suddenly, an image of them huddled over with walking canes is conjured in Seungyoun’s brain, making him chuckle. “Or maybe we’re just gentlemen who leave seats for those who need them. Although truthfully, I’m kinda tired of sitting.”

“That’s me. Computer chairs aren’t exactly comfortable.”

“You work even on a Sunday?”

“For now. We’re wrapping up a project. Once it’s finished, I’m returning to my regular hours.”

“We’re in the middle of something too. After that, my schedule is a lot more lenient.”

“Isn’t being an adult exhausting?”

“Tell me about it.”

The entry alarm rings in the background, an indication that the doors are about to close. Seungyoun readies himself by gripping the handrails and moving his feet apart for better equilibrium. He has a long trip ahead of him—there are seventeen stations before his intended stop in Gangnam. He’d usually waste the minutes daydreaming, but that won’t be the case for today, it seems.

“So your office is busy as well?”

“I won’t say it’s an office. But yeah, we’re swamped.”

“If it’s not too intrusive, can I ask what you do for a living?,” Seungwoo questions, fingers playing with his transit card. The train progresses through the remaining portion of the tunnel, shrouding him in brightness one second and in shadows the next. “Wait, that sounds creepy. Forget I mentioned anything.”

“It’s alright. I mainly compose songs, some of which I sing myself.”

“You’re a singer? Am I speaking to a celebrity?”

Seungyoun laughs again, amused at the simplicity of the analogy. If only things are that easy, there won’t be a need for hard work and diligence. “Definitely not a celebrity. If I was, you would’ve heard about me.”

“Hey, I’m not the best gauge of public interest. I’m old and behind trends, so I don’t recognize half of the songs which are trending these days. What do you call it… ah, yes. I’m boring and ancient.”

“When were you born?”

“1994.”

“Eh?,” Seungyoun exclaims, wide-eyed. “You’re only two years older than me. Isn’t it premature to lament about your age?”

“But I’m always teased by my friends, especially when it comes to my music taste,” Seungwoo complains, jutting out his lower lip. Clearly, he has mastered the art of puppy face.

“You do look like the type who is fun to annoy.” Truth be told, Seungwoo’s tiny and unpredictable reactions are hilarious, but Seungyoun will keep that observation to himself. “If you think they’re serious—which I doubt, by the way—just say you’re specific about preferences.”

“Well, I tend to fixate on the same artists and playlists. My taste isn’t that varied.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with that. Music is personal. Like what you like. Who cares if you play the same tracks all day? You’re even free to dislike things—just don’t be an asshole about it.”

“That last sentence is especially valid,” Seungwoo nods, agreeing. “It’s just a pity to be granted a sea and only indulge in a glass of it.”

“So much to perceive, so little time.”

“Precisely. It would be nice if we could spend our lives consuming what we want, but we have jobs and real life stuff to attend to.”

“Nonetheless, entertainment can come in small doses. You know, like watching movies on weekends or accommodating hobbies in free time. I always immerse myself in music whenever I can. Five minutes tops is all I need for one song, and I have 1,440 in a day.”

“That temporary escape.”

“Yeah. Life will be dull if we don’t stimulate our senses.”

The shiny, neofuturistic exterior of Dongdaemun Design Plaza rolls into view. With its appearance is their departure from the underground rails and the chance to finally enjoy the city in full perspective. This is Seungyoun’s favorite about train rides—the unfelt passing of time, the world going by in rectangular scenes. On certain days, it’s like being in a sentimental film.

“As a producer, what genres do you dabble in?”

“Ah, I do a bit of everything. I’m actually releasing an album soon. It’s my own, so I tried to integrate every single facet I have into it.”

Seungwoo whistles, visibly impressed. A stubborn red dot is stuck on his cheek, pinned in place by a nearby cell tower site. “What? That’s just… wow.”

“Because it’s my first, I wanted to showcase my range. There’s a slow ballad, a chill r&b-ish jam and an upbeat tune you can dance to. Emotional songs are always a given so I have those as well. Lastly, I included a rap track.”

“Wait, you mean you’re an all-rounder?”

“How can you refer to yourself as ancient when you’re aware of that term?” Praises turn his ears into tomatoes, so Seungyoun reroutes the topic before he embarrasses himself.

“Distraction isn’t going to work on me, Seungyoun,” Seungwoo warns jokingly. “Based on how you described the contents, I won’t be shocked if the album becomes a hit. You prepared a lot.”

“I tried to strike a balance between what I wanted to make and what I thought people would like. I hope it’s successful.”

“And I hope it grants you the recognition you deserve. It sounds phenomenal even with just that summary.”

“Do you want to listen? I can play the entire thing.”

Seconds tick before Seungwoo lays an answer. From the way he’s grimacing, the reply is already obvious. “I’d honestly love to, but I’m almost at my stop,” he mumbles, biting his lip. He looks apologetic, like he regrets being unable to respond positively.

Seungyoun’s mood is dampened for some reason, but he quickly conceals his expression with a wide grin. Some matters are out of his hands, and there’s no use in fretting over them. “Oh, your destination is near?”

“I’m getting off at Wangsimni. Four stops from Euljiro, three from our current location. My brother-in-law phoned in earlier to relay that my sister is in labor.”

“Oh my. Can you make it? Maybe you should’ve hailed a cab?”

Seungwoo shakes his head. “This is faster. It’s a nightmare to fetch taxis on a payday weekend. Besides, the whole family is there to accompany her. She’ll be alright.”

The train comes to a full stop. Throngs of people rush in once the doors open, permeating the vehicle to reach their preferred spots. Little by little, the rows of seats are occupied, and the peaceful atmosphere turns into a disorderly mess. Still, it’s far from the havoc of weekdays. This is something to be expected from Dongdaemun anyway—its crowd is unfaltering, no matter the hour.

More passengers mean less space for oneself, which also means that Seungyoun has to inch closer to Seungwoo in order to give others passage. The proximity allows their arms to brush against each other, leaving his skin with maps of adrenaline and nervousness. Every collision feels like a shift. He holds the handrail tightly to steady himself, especially when the back of his hand meets with his.

“I have around eight minutes left.”

“Huh?”

“I have eight minutes,” Seungwoo repeats. “We can squeeze in one song.”

“Really? Wait, you can wear this.” Seungyoun scrambles to hand his earphones as he scans the mobile folder he’s opened fifty times in the past week alone. Seven files pop up. He hovers a finger over the third, still undecided about a specific matter. Maybe a purely unbiased viewpoint is what he needs. “Actually, I believe you can help me.”

“Regarding what?”

“I’m having difficulties with this. If you can share your honest opinion about it…”

‘Love Me Harder’ is the name of Seungyoun’s title track. It talks about _a blue kind of love_ , which is an intentional contradiction to the universal red love concept everyone is familiar with. Blue flames are scientifically nearer to ignition point than low-temperature reds, and he wanted to use that as a symbol of a deeper, unwavering attraction. He’s been working on the song since January, but despite six months of modifications, it remains incomplete. Even consulting around hasn’t helped in its revision. With the album’s looming release date, he’s almost at his wit’s end.

Seungwoo takes the offered accessory. He gazes at him with furrowed brows, unable to comprehend what he’s asking—or rather _why_ , of all people, is he asking him. “Are you sure? I don’t know anything about music production,” he reminds, putting the earphones in.

“I’m not looking for technical feedback. Even the studio can’t decode what’s lacking, so I just want a fresh set of ears.”

“Hm. I don’t think I can be of any assistance, but I’ll do my best.”

“Don’t be pressured,” Seungyoun encourages. He presses the play button, and the scrubber begins to move. “I’ll appreciate any input.”

They traverse through Sindang without much fanfare. Because the neighborhood is mostly littered with offices, its weekends are typically quiet. An insignificant amount of passengers mount the train, and everyone mostly retains their places. The earlier clamor has considerably lessened as well; at the moment, only the whirr of the engine can be heard, plus the occasional LED screen commercials. A wailing sound comes from the second carriage, but it doesn’t last long enough to cause disturbance.

Coincidentally, the time of their commute corresponds to today’s sunset. Seungyoun marvels at the sight of a halcyon Seoul, still captivated despite seeing it a hundred times before. The city appears to be shining; its every surface tinted in cotton candy hues. This never fails to bring him relief. The more he absorbs the view, the higher his mind floats.

Once again, a tap on the shoulder interrupts his thoughts. He comes face to face with Seungwoo, who, like everything else, is also bathed in gold. The sun rays hang on to his sculpted cheekbones. From this angle, he’s utterly beautiful—the devastating kind that makes Seungyoun realize he’s unreachable.

“Hey,” Seungwoo says, snapping his fingers. “Are you okay?”

“What?,” Seungyoun distractedly asks. _He has such long and dense lashes. And that high nose, and the four moles on his face—_

“Are you fine? You’re not responding.”

_Is it weird to develop a crush this fast? He’s barely acquainted with him. What if he dislikes coffee? Or he doesn’t turn off the lights when they’re not in use? Or he’s both a clean freak and a morning person? Does he have pets? What if he’s a closet serial killer?_

“Seungyoun.”

All of a sudden, he is jolted from his trance. He registers the staring he’s done just now and feels the blood rush to his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I spaced out,” he stammers, praying that his gawking has gone undetected.

“Hey, what’s a commute without a little daydreaming?”

“Still, it’s mortifying. Ugh.”

“I hope it was a good vision at least,” Seungwoo jokes, dissolving into laughter. 

“Shut it and tell me what you think about the song instead.”

“Only if you divulge what has you blushing…”

“That’s it. I’m transferring to another line.”

“Wait, I’m kidding! Okay, okay. Here I go. Firstly, did you do the whistling yourself?”

“Yup.” Seungyoun purses his lips to do the chorus, which is also a thinly veiled attempt to curb his embarrassment. The whistling was a random sound he made while procrastinating, but one of the producers suggested using it as the tune’s base. So they did.

“That’s so cool? Everything about the song is impressive actually. But I kind of get what you mean when you say it’s inadequate.” With his gaping mouth, Seungwoo isn’t even hiding his amazement. His eyes are as wide as saucers, as if he just witnessed something revolutionary. (Which isn’t the case but he reacts well.)

“Right? It isn’t there yet.”

“What’s the emotion you’re aiming for?”

“It’s supposed to be bright. Feel-good, upbeat, electrifying. All those adjectives.” Love Me Harder is fun and carefree in melody, but genuine in its message. _While a blue love is uncommon, it isn’t any less precious._

“How about adding a grounding element?”

“Huh?”

“It’s monotone. You know when something is too saccharine because it’s all sweet? What it lacks is an edge.”

 _Oh._ That’s sensible. If both the sound and lyrics are romantic, the track does become tedious and cheesy. There’s nothing wrong with that, to be clear. However, his goal is to leave an impression, and a generic love song isn’t going to cut it.

The day gradually transitions into nightfall. By the time the sun has fully set, they’re almost at the next station. One by one, the street lamps are switched on, reducing Seoul into an expanse of tiny yellow dots. Seungyoun decides to ask one more question, and they spend the remainder of the train ride engaged in discourse. He hasn’t had this kind of interaction in a long time. Somehow, it leaves his heart flimsy.

“Should I include a rap verse? Growls? Sing with a deeper voice?”

“Hm. To me, an instrument is fine. How about layering it with a bass?” Seungwoo adapts a more businesslike demeanor, removing traces of his previous mirth. This is probably how he’s like at work. Either way, he’s disarming.

“Sounds excellent.”

“It should deliver a funky vibe. Bass can be heavy, but if done right, it’ll lend the groove you’re missing.”

“I’ll have someone assist me for that. But wow, we never thought of bass. You’re amazing.”

“Eh, I just really want you to succeed. If a comment will aid its onset, then I’m all for it.”

Engrossed in each other, they miss Sangwangsimni and its flea markets. They also miss two dropped wallets, some spilled milk from a leaking baby bottle and a small commotion over a Won Bin look-alike (spoiler: it’s not him). A beer advertisement airs on the screen, and its model is a singer Seungyoun once promoted with. This he notices, but he pretends he doesn’t. Outside, the moon is slowly introducing itself.

“I’m curious. What does blue and white represent?”

“Are you pertaining to the cover?”

Seungwoo smiles sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. “I didn’t mean to, but I accidentally got a peek while you were on your phone. I’m assuming it is since it has the word ‘Equal’ printed on it.”

”It’s fine. It’ll be publicized soon anyway,” Seungyoun shrugs, displaying his wallpaper which is the album art itself. “Yup, this is Equal alright. Originally, its color palette was blue and orange, inspired by the sun intersecting with the sea. When I got the prototypes though, the orange was too blinding. It might scare people off so we changed it to white.”

“Was it halloween-ish?,” Seungwoo teases, his grin back on full display.

“Not only that. It was borderline neon. You can imagine my disappointment.” Recalling the horrendous product samples still gives Seungyoun the shivers. Its brightness followed him then even when he closed his eyes. “Those two are my favorite colors, and I was looking forward to incorporating them.”

“The final design is badass though.”

“Yeah, the team in charge of that is very capable. I love how it turned out. It’s definitely better than the initial plan.”

“How about ‘Equal’ itself? What does it mean?”

Seungyoun ponders for a bit. How does he explain to a total stranger? While it isn’t shameful and private, the circumstances are quite complicated.

“Only if you’re comfortable sharing, of course. It’s not my right to know,” Seungwoo says, mistaking his silence for hesitance.

“No,” Seungyoun interjects, not wanting the other to misinterpret him. “Well, as you can see, I’m using a stage name instead of my birth one. I’ve used many aliases throughout my career, and I understand if some fans are puzzled. Simply put, Equal means I am all of them—everything I did in the past, am doing in the present and will do in the future is me. There’s no need to compare and differentiate them.”

Admittedly, trading personas was sometimes a coping mechanism. Whenever he promoted under a new name, Seungyoun felt like a brand new person as well. But at 24, he now has a firm grip of himself, and he’s more than ready to leave his pretenses. Out of everything, Woodz is still the most resonant and meaningful. _Deep roots, light branches._ A solid, ingrained attitude with delicate thoughts and steps.

He has weathered a lot of storms. There are close calls, broken promises, and a ton of stumbling and disintegration. The mental strain he’s endured only bred doubt—an uncertainty if any of his efforts are truly substantial. What helps him stand every time is the support of his loved ones; if it isn’t for them, he would’ve given up a long time ago. Someday, he hopes everything will prove to be worth it. He hopes that someday is near.

“You’ll pull it off,” Seungwoo assures confidently. His belief in him is staggering, and it’s a wonder how he gets it across without being overboard.

“How can you be certain?”

“I’m not. But you make people root for you—not out of pity, but because they truly believe in what you can offer. If many of us are wishing for your success, it shouldn’t be impossible for it to happen.”

“Thank you,” Seungyoun says, overcome with emotion. It’s these kinds of words that strengthen his resolve. “That really means a lot.”

“I’m anticipating your album. You can count on me to be the first listener.”

“Seungwoo, don’t make promises you can’t keep. First? Really?”

“Okay, maybe not the first. But within the top twenty?,” Seungwoo contemplates, touching his chin. “Or ten. Yes, I’m positive about ten.”

Seungyoun feels a smile take over his face, but he doesn’t wipe it off, too giddy to even care. “How will I know if you actually did it?”

“I guess you’ll have to trust me.” Seungwoo winks, effectively punctuating the conversation. 

If one isn’t sure of the current season, all they have to do is look at Hanyang University. The campus has colossal trees, and its verdant leaves signify the middle of summer. The large windows frame the scene perfectly—wind sweeping over the place, the surroundings swaying along to its beat. Despite its charm however, Seungyoun is unmoved. Seeing the college only means one thing: they have arrived in Wangsimni.

Some things are fleeting, like sparks, afternoon train rides and unexpected encounters. Everyone will reach their destination at some point. For Seungwoo, this is his. He adjusts his backpack before trudging to the exit, navigating the dense crowd with tiptoed feet. Suddenly, Seungyoun feels loose everywhere—his ribs, knees, and jellied hands. As if they’re detaching. Like he’s about to shatter into pieces. 

“Seungyoun, I know I only met you today but I’m saying this sincerely,” Seungwoo says hurriedly, uncaring about who hears him. “I hope the world is kind to you. Most importantly, I hope you’re happy.”

His answer is on the tip of his tongue, and it stays there as he watches Seungwoo descend from the vehicle. Once he’s on the platform, he chances another glance, and their eyes meet for what could be the last in a long while. They hold each other’s gazes until the alarm tolls—even after the doors have shut and the train departs for the next station. Seungyoun only stops looking when the structure becomes a blip on the horizon.

The following stops pass in a blur. He repeats their conversations over and over, committing them to memory. Funny how unreliable the brain can be; even now, some parts are already fuzzy. His fatigue returns with a vengeance. At the seventy-third hour of being awake, he begins to wonder if everything was a fever dream. 

What Seungyoun remembers is this: every collision felt like a shift. When he alights, he knows something has changed within him.

  
  
  
  
  


**day 007 ; or the end (but seungyoun is in denial)**

“Phew. I think we’re done.”

“Can we go through it again? For the last time, I promise.”

“Seungyoun-ah, you’re the artist so we can listen to it as many times as you like. Although I doubt playing it ten times in a row is going to change anything.”

“Just one more?”

“Of course,” Kyochang says, sliding a panel on the control surface. He is one of Equal’s album producers and a close friend of his. “For our future superstar.”

A whistle opens the song, and then his voice comes shortly after, crooning about a blue love and falling deeper into its abyss. Riffs and percussion materialize next, which the track largely relies on throughout, combining for a hook that’s catchy and appealing. The tune remains unchanged except for one addition: the underlying bass which Seungwoo suggested. Seungyoun shuts his eyes to focus on listening. If this playback goes well, there won’t be a need for any last minute adjustments. 

He moves his head to the beat. As the second verse plays, he can’t help but be proud of the output he was able to create. The praises of his family and friends are flattering, which feels like a validation of his efforts to improve as well. Of course, he isn’t discrediting everyone who helped. Equal is a collective work, and it wouldn’t have come into fruition on his own. Still, the compliments are a big boost to his dwindling confidence.

“What do you think?”

Seungyoun shifts in his seat. He knew they were done from the first listen, but being the perfectionist that he is, he wanted to be sure. And after ten repeats, he finally is. “We’re good. Love Me Harder is ready to be deployed.”

“Are you sending out troops?,” Kyochang asks. He looks like he’s on the verge of laughing, only that he’s holding it in. “But it does feel like that, no? You want the songs to be safe out there.”

“The public is terrifying. They’ll either gobble what you give them or throw it up violently. Stomp on it or burn it at the stake. Worse, they won’t even give it the time of day.”

“That’s why hooks are important. It’s the gateway to their brains. If you want them to notice you, you have to make them remember something at least.”

“Do you think the song is enough?,” Seungyoun anxiously says. The track feels complete already, but he’s worried if it’s still lacking.

“More than so. I’m not saying this because we’re tight, but it can really go places. I have a good feeling about it.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“The gut is rarely wrong.”

“For me, it sometimes was,” Seungyoun sighs. “How soon can we send this to the management?”

Kyochang adjusts one of the dials before facing him. “I can do it right now if you want to.”

“And how long is the album production?”

“You’d be surprised. CD manufacturing has a rather fast turnaround. The agency has to book your production slot and, naturally, deliver by that date. But I believe factories can finish a project within a week.”

“That quick?,” Seungyoun gapes, uninformed regarding this aspect. While he’s involved up to the graphic design process, he doesn’t know much about what happens next.

“Yes. If we send this in before dinner time, the more leeway they have to schedule for as early as tomorrow. The product should be out in seven days minimum.”

“Should we do it?”

“You’re the artist so it’s up to you,” Kyochang shrugs. “But for me, it’s all set. You’re going to send it anyway. The only difference is, the longer you wait, the more delayed the drop will be.”

Seungyoun knows that, but for some reason, he can’t shake off his nervousness. The end of this project feels very near (for the album assembly, at least), and the culmination of all their hard work will soon be revealed. He looks around the studio. Majority of Equal was produced here—he remembers the sleepless nights and the alternating feeling of anticipation and dread. Today seemed so far when they began, and the beginning seems so long ago now that they’re done. 

He inhales deeply. “Okay. Do it.”

“Is that final?”

“Hey, weren’t you pushing me earlier?”

“I’m just asking. You might blame me later on.” This is said in a joking way, of course.

Seungyoun makes a shoo motion with his right hand. “Go already before I change my mind.”

“Got it, boss.” Kyochang turns to the laptop, typing. The process feels like minutes when in reality, it hasn’t even been thirty seconds.

“Is it done?”

“Yup. Now we wait for the confirmation, which they usually give after they talk to the CD manufacturer. Anyway, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this…”

“That opening makes me nervous.”

“It’s not something bad! Unless you did something to be scared about?”

“Maybe if you say the question directly then I can give you an answer?”

“Yeah, yeah. Here I go. It’s just that you mentioned the bass was someone else’s idea. I’m curious, who was that? We talked to everyone we know.”

 _Ah, right._ Out of distraction, Seungyoun let it slip once that he got the idea from a friend. That’s the damning remark: he said ‘friend.’ To his friends who pretty much know every single one of his other friends. Admittedly, it wasn’t one of his brightest moments. It might’ve been simpler if he just confessed to the stranger part—he knows they won’t judge him for it anyway. They’ve seen him in worse states in the past, so a little crush story isn’t going to hurt. And honestly, there isn’t anything suspicious about letting a person you met on the train listen to a song you’re about to release. It’s uncommon, sure, but far from criminal.

But then he is also resolute about not divulging anything. He wants to keep that memory to himself, like a book he can open when he’s exhausted. Remote and unsullied, dormant on the fissures of his brain.

So he tells a white lie. Just until he meets Seungwoo again and he can finally introduce him. “Ah, he’s a part-time barista at a café. You know how they chat to make you feel cozy? That sorta worked too well.”

“Oh wow. Must’ve made an impression on you if you shared the song.” Kyochang’s voice doesn’t hold any insinuations, but it leaves him gulping.

“I guess? He seemed reliable. The kind who gave sage advice.”

“And it was true. Where would we be if it wasn’t for him?”

“He got it in one listen too,” Seungyoun boasts, as if the other needs to know such information. “I was shocked.”

“What?,” Kyochang raises a brow, surprised. “That’s neat.”

“Yeah. He was direct as well, telling me to bypass rap verses and just straight up add bass. He said he didn't have a background in music production, but his words were spot on.”

“He has good ears, probably. Or he listens to music a lot. Where is the café? I need to be friends with him.”

Seungyoun almost drops his iced americano. His hands are cold from holding the drink, but at the same time, they feel balmy. “Eh?”

“Imagine how he can help us in the future. Plus he sounds like a cool person. Maybe we can go there sometime and you show him to me?”

He scrambles his brain for an answer. As always, he unnecessarily ran his mouth again. He just had to brag, didn’t he? “Oh. As I said, he’s a part-timer. His shift is erratic, so he changes schedules often. Or at least, that’s what the manager told me when I went and he wasn’t there,” he clears, mentally congratulating himself for his quick thinking.

“You were back already?”

“Yes. I wanted to thank him.”

“That’s a pity. When he’s available though…”

“Yeah, let’s see. Anyway, don’t you want to pack up? You have to be somewhere by five, right? It’s four-fifty already.”

Kyochang pales. He has a date with his girlfriend, and he is running late. “Oh shit. Let me close up first.”

The studio equipment is shut down, and the pinlights are switched off one by one as well. Seungyoun slings his bag over his shoulder, tapping his feet as he waits for the other to finish. Kyochang’s girlfriend has been tolerant of their working hours, so he hopes today’s date will make up for months of barely seeing her boyfriend. With their responsibilities done, they should have more time for personal matters. 

They open the door to damp streets brought on by an earlier drizzle. Rain in the summer often ushers in humidity, and as much as Seungyoun loves a downpour, he’d rather it doesn’t happen on a sweltering day like today. He already feels the sweat forming on his sideburns. It’s not a nice look, especially when he’s planning to meet (and hopefully impress) someone.

“Where are you going then?”

“Home.”

“What? It’s not even five?,” Kyochang asks, stopping in his tracks. Disbelief is written all over his face to the point where it’s almost comical.

Seungyoun chuckles. He understands the incredulity—he’s always been a night person, much more so than the others. “Yeah. Why shouldn’t I?”

“I’m just amazed. Your mother will be frightened to see you in the house before midnight. She’ll probably think you’re a ghost.”

“Silence,” he chides. “It’s four fifty-five. You better walk faster because I won’t be there to accompany you in case she leaves your sorry ass.”

“Why didn’t we choose a nearby place?,” Kyochang complains as he resumes walking. “Like this one. It’s pretty and with pasta too.”

“Stop whining. I can see the signboard already.”

The restaurant is one of the more popular spots in the neighborhood. It’s famous for divine Italian and Mediterranean food, which customers and chefs often rave about in food review apps. Because the area is often full, dining in calls for advance reservations. It’s also a known date spot, which is precisely why Seungyoun has only tried it a number of times. He likes quiet spaces more—those that allow him to think and zone out, where he can stay in for hours and not worry about disturbing anyone. Fortunately, Euljiro has lots of them too.

“It’s here, right?,” he asks, narrowly avoiding a pothole of water. The skies have brightened up to a bright blue, as if rain didn’t pass.

“Yup,” Kyochang says, nodding. “I can see her. There, beside the window.”

Seungyoun follows to where Kyochang’s finger is pointed and sees his girlfriend in a pretty gingham dress. She’s been introduced to them before, but as a flight attendant, she’s often out of the city and absent from their group celebrations. Which is why he even feels more guilty—their precious time has been taken away by the album production. He tried apologizing to them about it once, but they shrugged it off, saying they wholeheartedly want to support his endeavors.

He waves his hand to gesture a _hi_ through the window. Once he gets a greeting in return, he elbows Kyochang and urges him to go inside.

“Leave already.”

“Yeah, I will. See you soon then,” Kyochang says, saluting him before entering the establishment. He settles down at their table, looking the happiest he’s been all week.

Not wanting to intrude any further, Seungyoun steps back and proceeds on his way. His destination is nearby so he marches faster, mindful of the mud sticking to his shoes. His heart is about to jump out of his chest. It sounds stupid and childish, but he’s eager to see him again. Yes, he even cleared his schedule for this—all late dinners and nights out were blocked for today.

In Euljiro, the streets are lined with ginkgo trees. When they become sparse—and at one point, completely disappear—he knows he’s reached the train station. It seems more intimidating than usual, which compels him to descend its stairs in a slower fashion too. Anticipation ricochets around his ribcage, bouncing from one bone to another and leaving him in a tizzy.

Five-twenty. He’s still early so he rests on one of the platform benches. A child touches his knee and he grins in reply, cooing at her and expressing how cute she is. She stays with him until she is fetched by her mother, who profusely apologizes for the trouble. He waves back at the child when she bids goodbye, and he continues to look even after their train is gone. Alone again, Seungyoun gazes around. Sundays are truly relaxed—you can tell by how leisurely everyone moves.

The next train will be arriving soon. It’s the train he took last week where he met Seungwoo. His legs wobble a bit as he stands, and he can’t tell if it’s from nerves or excitement. He fixes his hair for the twentieth time in a minute, tucking an unruly bang to the side. As the horn sounds, he takes a step forward. He’s waited six days for this; now, it has finally come.

The crowd closes in as the doors open. However, he doesn’t find what he’s searching for—there isn’t that height nor that pale skin, nor that gentle smile and those broad shoulders. But _no,_ he can’t get it wrong. It’s exactly five-thirty in the afternoon, in the same time and the same place, and it should’ve given way to a second encounter. How can it spiral out of control like this? Maybe that was the problem—he believed it was up to him.

God, and he was _so_ sure.

Of course, they didn’t talk about it. There were no promises to meet again or start a friendship. All they had was that tiny moment—something opportune, a speck in their twenty plus years of living. Disappointment blooms in his chest; a firm, sudden stab before dissolving into tiny pinpricks. He knows this feeling intimately. So much that he always has a room for it.

Still, he tries to cheer himself up. This is the first time anyway—maybe Seungwoo was busy or he got off work early. There’s the next weekend; he’ll see him by then, right? When it’s twenty-five minutes past the supposed meeting time, Seungyoun boards the train with a heavy heart, but still optimistic nonetheless.

  
  
  
  
  


**day 021 ; or the** **_end_ ** **end (but seungyoun is still hoping)**

The album does better than expected. No, ‘better’ is an inadequate word to describe its success. Officially tallying almost 102,000 sales in just a week, the astronomical feat is more than anything he could’ve dreamed of. Seungyoun waits for the other shoe to drop, for a catch or a setback that will drag him back to the ground. However, it doesn’t come this time, and he buries his face in his hands, letting his body tremble from the force of his sobs. He is used to life’s surprises—he just isn’t used to them being other than some form of disappointment.

“Seungyoun-ah, you made it,” Hohyun, one of his guitarists, says. He takes him in for a hug, and the warmth he emanates is still the same after all these years.

“I didn’t think I would,” Seungyoun admits. “I was ready to apologize to my mother again.”

“Hey, be confident. You dedicated six months into Equal, an album that is both impressive and high quality. It isn’t too shocking for it to chart and be included in music recommendation lists.”

The words remind him of someone, but he shrugs off the thought as fast as it arrives. He’s still dismayed about not seeing Seungwoo for the past three weeks. It’s not anyone’s fault, but he feels betrayed. “I wish effort is all it was, but I know a huge part of it is luck. But yeah, it took a while. I’m happy that things are paying off at least.”

“You can give everything and still get nothing in return, no? Chance is silly like that. Still, there’s nothing wrong if you had a bit of assistance from luck. Everyone does.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Seungyoun answers, sighing. It’s not that he’s complaining, but his cynicism runs deep.

“So curb your sighing, or I’ll report it to your mother.”

“Bold of you to assume that I’m terrified.”

“Should we test it?,” Hohyun threatens without any heat, already sure of his reaction.

Because it’s a truth universally acknowledged that Seungyoun is scared of his mother. He didn’t deny it from day one, and he isn’t going to deny it now. “Pretend you didn’t hear anything. Like I said, I’m going to shut up already.”

They briefly chuckle before becoming pensive again. “Seungyoun-ah, you’ve endured well. I hope you know that alone is enough reason to celebrate.”

“Thank you,” he says, feeling his eyes brim with tears. He is sensitive, and often, a few words are enough for him to crumble. “Ugh. I’m about to cry again.”

“Hold on. Which do you prefer: pizza or chicken?”

“Huh? That’s so out of the blue. I…,” Seungyoun trails, seriously deliberating.

“Go. I’m giving you five minutes.”

“There are flavors of pizza I don’t like, and there are variants of chicken I don’t like either. And there are pizzas I really, really like, and the same goes for chicken... Ugh, why are you asking me such a question?”

Hohyun laughs upon seeing him struggle. He knows these two are his favorites and making him choose is synonymous to breaking his head. “See? You forgot about crying.”

 _Ah. That’s what this is about?_ Sometimes, the thoughtfulness of the people around him still astounds Seungyoun. “Does your plan involve forcing me to think about food and not following through, leaving me with just my imagination?”

“Wow, that’s slander. But no, we’re really having them delivered, so pick one already because the team is famished.”

Seungyoun does his best imitation of puppy eyes, exaggeratedly batting his lashes for added effect. He’s on a strict diet, but it won’t hurt to ask for one more thing to go his way, right? “Can we have both? Pretty please?”

Hohyun groans, but it’s out of fondness—the kind that says he’s aware this will happen and he’ll allow it anyway. “Okay,” he relents. “I was actually planning to do so from the start.”

“Then what is the purpose of this?”

“Distraction. I don’t want you dehydrated from the amount of weeping you’ve been doing these days.” Their conversation is cut short as the orders are placed via a delivery app, with everyone waiting for the assigned transit time.

“T-minus thirty minutes, everyone. Scatter around, and I’ll call you once the food arrives.”

Seungyoun roams the studio in the meantime. It’s a space he co-owns with some close friends, which also serves as their sanctuary in times when the world is too cruel. Here they can hide and recuperate and have the freedom to create whichever songs they want. It’s not even a full setup most times—one just plucks a guitar while the other hums along and another beatboxes. Still, it’s one of the most comforting experiences to have. That camaraderie as they jam to their hearts’ content. 

He stares at these people one by one as he traces the variances life carved into them. There are the obvious physical differences and the undetectable ones—those they tried to cover with tattoos or shocking hair changes. When you’re young, you tend to think that problems can be mended by some coolness and apathy. It was when everything blew up in his face that he realized they didn’t contribute any progress, which was incredibly unsettling to find out, but a very important lesson to learn nonetheless.

But that part has mostly passed, and nowadays, everyone’s circumstances are significantly better. Perseverance is finally making a dent, the way a drip left alone for long enough cuts through a mountain. They’re steadily moving forward, and with it comes opportunities they’ve never been afforded before. For example, Seungyoun is scheduled for a radio guesting. It’s something he’s always been curious about, even though having to talk nonstop mangles his nerves.

“Delivery is here!”

He rises from the swivel chair. The pungent smell of spice and blue cheese wafts throughout the room, whetting his appetite. There are heaps of chicken restaurants in Euljiro, but the buffalo wings of this particular restaurant remain the best. Sadly, it isn’t a franchise store, which means one has to go all the way to the neighborhood to have a taste. He believes it’s worthwhile though. Food is always a valid reason to wander.

As the wings are brought out of their boxes, the pizza flavors are revealed as well—two large Quattro Formaggis and Supremes; one full of cheese and one with italian sausages. All in all, the spread is a feast. Everyone surrounds the studio’s only table, paper plates in hand and their eyes gleaming with excitement. Seungyoun leaves them to their shares before getting his, observing and already half-full from delight.

There’s a corner spot which gets the most sun. He proceeds to situate himself there, basking in the summer heat brought on by July’s end. Sometimes, a day can feel wispy, like it’s made of a hundred cotton tendrils, like today when his emotions are more tender and delicate. It’s a good type of vulnerability, making him reflect and all that jazz.

“Do you like the food?,” asks Heesu, who is another one of his producer-friends, sitting on the stool next to his. This person collaborated with him for _Waikiki_ , a lo-fi track with the imagery of being on an island after sundown. Due to its sensual beat, Waikiki sounds relaxed, almost as if it’s suspended in a constant state of bliss. Maybe it’s this loose atmosphere that made it the third most popular song in the album.

“Of course. You know I can’t resist these.”

“Good. You should eat as much as you want. You earned it.”

Seungyoun puts the slice of pizza down. He furrows his brows, confused. “Why is everyone dead set on being sentimental today?”

“I just said to eat a lot. What’s sentimental about it?”

“Hyung, your usual advice is to forgo meals in favor of work. Do you remember when we were doing Waikiki and you told me my burger could wait?”

“You make it sound like I’m some sort of slave driver. We did the song for thirty minutes, Seungyoun-ah. The burger was still hot when you ate it,” Heesu says matter-of-factly, delivered in that deadpan manner of his.

“Doesn’t change the fact that you’re being all sweet today.”

“Fine. Go hungry. Choke on a bone for all I care.”

“I’m just kidding, hyung. Don’t leave,” Seungyoun placates, grasping the other’s elbow. They joke around like this often, so he knows it’s all good.

Heesu clicks his tongue. “My dongsaeng. So talented, but what a mess.”

“Heh. Could be a lyric for the next release.”

“Oh right, you’re working on something already. What’s your plan?”

“There’s no specific date yet. However, my target is by the end of the year. October, November or December—just among those three.”

“Aren’t you tired from Equal?”

“Sure I am, but I need to strike while the iron is hot. These things are short-lived. If I wait too long, it’ll be out of my grasp again.”

Heesu’s eyes light up in understanding. As an artist himself, he can empathize with how the spotlight is too critical at times. One can toil away all their lives for a shred of its shine and fail; and even if they succeed, it’s still not an assurance unless the attention is sustained. People are drained to the bone, and yet the same people are discarded in a blink. It’s a vicious cycle that no one bats an eye on. How does one go against decades of systematic maltreatment, including the very institutions who perpetuate it?

“That’s true. But I hope you don’t overwork yourself,” he reminds. “We may not look like it, but we worry about you."

The gravity of the statement is not lost on Seungyoun, and once again, he is thankful for having people who genuinely care. “I know. But I’ve been idle for too long, hyung. If I’m asked to pick between rest and continuously promoting, I’ll undoubtedly choose the latter. Even if it means adapting on my part.”

“Of course. You belong to the stage. Do whatever you need to stay there.”

“Yeah. There’s no going back now. If a chance comes, are you open to another collaboration?”

“Come on now,” Heesu chides, grinning. “You don’t even have to ask.”

It takes three slices of pizza and five pieces of chicken for Seungyoun to be satisfied. His gym trainer is going to kill him for consuming so much junk food, but he doesn’t regret anything, not when the corners of his mouth are stained a bright hot sauce red. Eating is often monitored during promotions—this time around, he has assigned meals for gaining weight and building muscle. He’s good at following these; in all honesty, his discipline is often praised. Still, he does the occasional indulgence. It isn’t realistic to live in tofu and sweet potatoes forever.

“Do you want to take home some of these?,” Heesu asks, pointing to the leftover food. There are a few servings left, which should be enough for a midnight snack.

However, what he ate is enough gratification for today. Seungyoun did have more than intended, but it doesn’t mean he’ll take everything else. “No, it’s fine. You can offer it to others.”

“It was bought for you, but if you’re sure...”

“Yeah,” he reassures, nodding. “I already had a lot earlier.”

Tasting the dressing still, Seungyoun takes a gulp of carbonated water to wash off the grease. The cold fizz is refreshing, breaking across his tongue in pops and effervescence. It brings back a certain memory of him as a child, with his habit of holding the soda in his mouth before swallowing. It was to recreate the feeling of a rolling ocean. Now that he thinks of it, he’s always been influenced by water in some way.

It’s at this moment that he checks his phone, and seeing the time almost makes him spit out his drink. Five-ten in the afternoon—no, it just changed to eleven. Holy fuck. _He’s going to be late._

“I have to go,” he suddenly says, startling everyone in the room. He grabs his bag and a tissue simultaneously, dabbing his lips and chin for oil and other residue. 

His manager raises his head in concern. “Is there an emergency?”

“No, no. Just someone I have to meet.” He remembers setting the alarm to five this morning. Did he forget?

“Oh, it’s that five-thirty Sunday appointment?”

“You can say so. Anyway, I really appreciate this. I’m sorry for leaving all of a sudden.”

“It’s alright. We’re about to end at six anyway,” his manager answers, glancing at the clock. “Don’t stay out too late. You have an early day tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Thank you again.” Seungyoun fixes the strap of his boots before rushing out of the place. With how quick he’s moving, one would think he has hurricanes on his feet.

Fortunately, the train station is a manageable distance from the studio. It's a 20-minute leisure walk at most, 15 if brisk and 10 if a light jog. But because he’s in a hurry, Seungyoun opts to run instead, not minding the stares of the strangers around him. Why would he? There are more things to focus on, like ensuring he isn’t about to fall flat on his face. He passes by a number of beautiful structures—a café and flower shop hybrid, a glass-windowed art gallery, a building with an unfinished concrete facade—but he pays them no mind, intent on reaching the subway before five-thirty.

After a few minutes of scurrying, the underpass entrance makes itself visible. He dashes even faster if possible, climbing down the stairs two steps at a time. He almost trips when his shoe gets stuck in an uneven tile groove, but he quickly recovers, gripping the handrail that’s his only saving grace from broken bones. Seungyoun composes himself. As important as this is to him, it’s not enough grounds to injure himself, especially in the middle of activities.

The digital clock reads 5:20, in bold red writing which can be seen from miles away. Similar to most weekends, the crowd is thin today, and one should be able to easily locate whomever it is they’re searching. He extends his neck as far as it can go, staring at every face on the platform in the most inconspicuous way possible. There are kids, dressed couples and families on a date, along with some office employees who are obviously gruntled to be working on a Sunday. Everyone is here, meandering and going places, except for the boy he wants to see.

Still, he hangs on. Until the seconds seem like minutes, and the minutes seem like hours. He hears the trains come and go, and every time, he raises his head to a dashed hope. But patience is a virtue, and virtues are things he’s always tried to have more of. So he waits, and when there’s still no sign of him, he waits some more.

At exactly five-fifty in the afternoon, Seungyoun decides to board the train to Gangnam. Despite knowing he’ll be faced with disappointment yet again, his first instinct is to look for that familiar frame. He’s hoping to find Seungwoo holding on to a handrail, smiling at him questioningly, like he’s wondering why he took too long. But of course, there’s no such thing. The vehicle is quiet, with people minding their phones and their business. Suddenly, he feels raw everywhere—it’s on his fragile steps and the tightness of his chest. As if he’s bursting. Like he’s about to fall apart. 

  
  
  
  
  


**day 061 ; or just the end (and seungyoun finally accepts it)**

A lot can change within a short period of time. With Seungyoun’s growing popularity comes a lot of adjustments, including having to be extra careful of the places he goes to. People are beginning to recognize him, and the last time he went out unchaperoned, he had to hide inside a café restroom until a group of obstinate fans abandoned him. His manager received a thorough scolding from the agency then, but they also decided to provide him with additional security reinforcements. As a result, he’s often accompanied these days, and personal itinerary, while left unmonitored, is highly discouraged. 

This curtails his freedom by a notch. It’s something he expected though—the more people who know him, the smaller his world will become. He’s long realized this fact, which doesn’t make it easier to swallow but has to be done nonetheless. It’s similar to an overflowing glass of water, or to sand escaping through the spaces of one’s grip. He can’t hold on to something without spilling a little of it. At some point, there are liberties he has to give up. 

Like today, for example. He’s letting go of a place which has been monumental to his growth. Well, letting go sounds a tad too dramatic, but it certainly feels like so with how heavy his heart is. He can visit whenever his schedule permits, sure, but what’s the point if he won’t find the same people and spaces anymore? There’s not much left in Euljiro. Everyone has moved to busier districts where opportunities are all sparkly and silver.

Seungyoun stands in front of where their studio used to be. _‘Used to’_ because they closed it exactly a month ago. He didn’t think they’d need to do it someday, but times were changing and so were their circumstances. Because none of them live within the area, the studio was eventually utilized for only three days a week, which was uneconomical for the cost of its upkeep. A one-way subway trip was almost an hour too, and some of them would rather use that time to rest than travel. Even their initial reason for choosing the location was compromised, as gentrification spiked the cheap rent into a hefty rate. All in all, sentimentality aside, it was more practical to relinquish the space. So they did—and calmly too, in a clean cut manner which didn’t leave loose ends. There were tears, of course, but also a promise to reestablish once matters are smoothed. Maybe that helped them accept.

The air is currently filled with paint fumes. With renovations in full swing, the property must have already been repurchased. Soon, all remainders will be replaced, and everything from before will become a part of the past. It’s so odd how someone will stand in this same spot in the future and not know that a studio was here once, and that it was home to people’s hopes, dreams and frustrations. It’s so damn odd—because the thought both comforts him and breaks his heart.

He checks his watch. It’s still early for his next rendezvous, but he has to move now if he plans to make it in time by walking. Walking; because it’s his last day in Euljiro for a while, and he wants to relish in the charm which attracted him to it. Maybe it’s the graffiti, or the fun restaurants, or the lamp distributor at the end of the street. Or the underground bars and interesting backstreet shops, which sell everything from home tiles to crystal paperweights. Maybe it’s the contrast between long-standing and newly opened businesses; it isn’t uncommon to find a dilapidated storefront beside a hip, colorful exterior. Euljiro is a paradox of old and new—there’s always something for him, whether he’s in the mood to be boring or adventurous.

Summer is ending. Seungyoun can tell from the slight chill on his exposed wrists. His steps are faster now, and he encounters a number of familiar establishments, including the former site of the chicken place he dearly cherished. It’s been converted into a bookstore. According to the owner, the restaurant was transferred to a location with more traffic and potential customers. The same happened to his other favorites as well, until almost everything has either closed or relocated. A lot has changed within a short period of time. With his usual proclivities gone, the neighborhood feels like a shell of what it used to be.

His last agenda for today, predictably, is the Line 2 Euljiro subway station. Once again, the underpass entrance welcomes him, seemingly accustomed now to his presence. He roams the structure unhurriedly, studying its ticket booths, low-beam ceilings and fading metal posts. Commuting by train has been his means of transportation for years, and he couldn’t have imagined that he’ll have to avoid it at some point. Starting tomorrow, he’ll be chauffeured around by the agency’s van for official schedules. He has deposited a downpayment for a car as well, which he can claim in a week’s time. There’s no reason to take public vehicles anymore, and most importantly, doing so has been prohibited. Just from these small constraints, he can fathom the differences the past months had made.

Five-fifteen. Seungyoun scans the platform for the last time. His eyes are already used to the order it should sweep—first, the passengers on standby, then the ones descending the stairs, and then the ones from the incoming train which arrives every five minutes. Because it’s days to a public holiday, the crowd is thicker than usual, and searching isn’t feasible unless he concentrates. While the larger part of him is unhopeful, a tiny voice in the back of his mind says to wait. So he does, like he’s been doing for two months now. Every Sunday from five to six in the afternoon, he’s always been waiting. 

Sometimes the memory is so little that he almost forgets it. That every time he unearths it, a piece of it breaks, and he isn’t sure anymore if he’s remembering out of accuracy or from a purely romanticized perspective. Because it happened at sunset, it’s easy to think that the atmosphere might have colored the whole thing. Aren’t there too many movie scenes about fleeting encounters, most of them done in a backdrop of blue and orange?

When it’s already five forty-five and Seungwoo is still nowhere to be found, Seungyoun comes to a decision. He enters the train and keeps his gaze outdoors, pulling the bucket hat down to further hide his face. There are people you meet who you find later on, and there are people you meet who you never see again. Such is life.

Some things, he knows, are just not meant to be.

  
  
  
  
  


**day 151 ; or the beginning (when seungyoun least expects it)**

Seungyoun hasn’t been anywhere but to Gangnam in the past couple of months. Everything is here—his apartment, his agency, his schedules and guestings. Most broadcasting stations are located nearby as well, which saves time and lets him sleep in during mornings. _Like now,_ he thinks as he rolls in bed, further burrowing into the softness of his pillows. Today’s radio show is still at three-thirty, so he has room to procrastinate and stare at the ceiling.

Except that he has to be somewhere by twelve, and it’s already… well, exactly twelve. Technically, it isn’t an official schedule, so it should be fine even if he’s a bit late. He’s strict about punctuality otherwise—while he can be delayed due to unforeseen reasons, he dislikes intentionally making people wait for him. Blinking traces of sleep, he pushes himself to sit up properly. Which, in the process, pulls some of his muscles that are still sore from yesterday’s gym training.

This makes him indulge in a warm bath. The temperature soothes the knots of his body, especially its tenderest parts. He puts a drop of peppermint oil in the tub water, and instantly, its smell fills the space, clearing his fog-addled brain. He’s sleepy, and his thoughts are in a jumble. When the water hits his back shoulders, he can’t help but to close his eyes in bliss.

Unfortunately, he has to go soon. He doesn’t have time to soak, so he vacates the tub just after a few minutes. Leaving it to drain, he wraps himself in a towel before padding to the closet. Since it’s a casual gathering, there’s no need to be formal, and he reaches for a simple printed tee and distressed jeans. He pairs it with his trusty Converse. Topped with a jacket, the outfit is laid-back but presentable. This is often his dress code: relaxed to actually move around in and yet ready for unexpected photos. Satisfied with his appearance, he comes downstairs to where the van is parked.

The location isn’t that far; in fact, it’s only a thirty-minute ride. Seungyoun isn’t even halfway into his Netflix movie when his manager informs him that they’ve arrived. He gets his bag from the backseat and tucks it to his side, checking his reflection in the rearview mirror one more time.

“Do you have everything you need?,” his manager asks, looking over his shoulder from the passenger seat.

“Yup. All complete.”

“Alright. We’ll fetch you by two and proceed to hair and make-up. Hyup-hyung will be there with your clothes too.”

“Got it. See you later,” Seungyoun replies as he alights the van. He closes the door and the vehicle speeds away, immediately becoming out of sight.

He looks around. Gangnam, while cold and impersonal at first, eventually grew on him. Despite living here all his life, he never made an effort to know it better because he was focused somewhere else—that place being Euljiro. But now, he’s privy to its corners and alleys. He’s found spaces which make him feel settled and healed. It’s his most recent lesson: that while comfort is often reflexive, sometimes it’s a construct. He can hold on to old, familiar things which don’t exist anymore, or he can find new discoveries and treasure them alongside everything that came before. One can always learn something, as long as they’re open and receptive to it.

Seungyoun presses the bell of a steel door. When it’s already been a minute and no one is still unlatching it, he repeats the action once more. Often, its people are slow to answer because they’re either playing music or fast asleep. This time, he hears a click after three tries—one less than his previous visit.

“Seungyoun-ah,” Kyochang greets, opening his arms widely for a hug. “How have you been?”

“Good,” Seungyoun answers, returning the gesture. This is their new studio—smack dab in the center of the district, surrounded by other nondescript two-storey buildings. At 1,500 square feet, it’s spacious and wide, which is a drastic contrast to their previous cramped workroom. An array of control surfaces take up most of the space, and rack mounts are placed forlornly in a corner. They even have an electronic drum kit. He moves closer to it, tapping the crash cymbal.

Most of his friends now reside in Gangnam. Because of this, they decided to set up within the area for easy access. Granted, it’s not cheap. But opportunities have been kind to them, which provides a bit more room to spend. This time, they installed hardware upgrades as well. The result is the high-end studio they only once dreamed about.

“Kinda forgot how you looked for a second there,” Kyochang jokes, sitting on one of the swivel chairs. “That blue hair matches you.”

Seungyoun follows suit, chuckling. He hasn’t seen any of them in a while, especially that he’s often in practice nowadays. “Heh. Doesn’t it? I’ll dye it back to black soon though.”

“Is your comeback already slated?” Shocked, Kyochang turns to him. For this upcoming promotion, the only ones looped in are the involved producers and his agency. Even his family and friends are kept in the dark.

“It’s coming very soon. Probably in two weeks’ time?”

“Holy—that near? Wow. But then it’s been four months since you released Equal, give or take.”

“Yup, so I need my scalp to be in its best state before I ruin it again.”

“Ah, the woes of a celebrity. What color are you thinking of?”

“Green? Platinum white? I don’t even have an idea about the cut yet.”

“What if you suddenly show up with long hair? Those hit extensions? Waist-long and ultra-straight strands?”

The image makes Seungyoun shudder. Some people can pull it off, but he’s sure he isn’t one of them. “Hey, absolutely no. I’ll never ever consider it even once.”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” Kyochang teases, pretending to sweep his imaginary hair aside. “But kidding aside, you look good in anything. I remember seeing your fake mullet and thinking you were cool.”

“Until now, I’m surprised it became a hit.”

“Aren’t we all? I see you at your ugliest all the time, so watching your stages confuses me.”

“The way you say ugly…,” Seungyoun leans back, faking offense.

“Isn’t it true?” But as much as he kids around, Kyochang is generous with compliments. He’s always sincere with his praises.

“Well, I can say the same to you.”

“Obviously,” Kyochang says, sticking out his tongue. “That’s why we’re friends.”

Seungyoun sips from his iced americano. At once, it relieves his fatigue and causes him to be more awake. Which he needs for his next schedule—radio shows are difficult because of the nonstop conversing. And it all happens live, with no edits or cuts to save him from stupidity. He’s always one step from publicly embarrassing himself. If he goes there groggy, who knows what he’ll do?

In the silence, all they hear is the whirr of the ceiling fan. He puts his feet atop the desk, twisting his stiff ankles. The best thing about longtime friendships is that one doesn’t need to speak just to put weight in the air. Talking or not talking—they’re fine either way.

“What’s behind the next album?”

“Surely, the goal is still to show my different sides,” Seungyoun answers, resolute. “And since the response to Equal was overwhelming, I want to repay everyone who’s been supportive.”

Kyochang nods. “The numbers of Equal still blow my mind.”

“Me too. It’s unlike whatever we expected.”

“There must be some pressure then?”

“Of course. But it’s helpful in pushing me to experiment more. I really want to give the audience my best, so I’m working hard on it.”

“You’ve memorized this spill already. However, if you need my help…,” Kyochang reminds, patting him on the shoulder. It’s during these times that Seungyoun realizes the depth of his bonds.

Despite the lightness of his response, he’s sure that Kyochang will understand its weight. “Yeah, yeah. You’d be the first to know.”

“Now that that’s settled, do you have something for later?”

“Yup. Radio at three-thirty, so the manager will fetch me by two. Why?” Seungyoun checks the clock. At one in the afternoon, it’s still far off.

“We have an hour then,” Kyochang says, grinning mischievously. “What do you say we play around with these tools?”

  
  
  
  
  


There are two things in Seungyoun’s mind as he sets foot in the building: first is to watch his words during the broadcast, and second is to be as entertaining as possible. He doesn’t know how he’ll integrate both, but he trusts himself enough not to mess it up, at least for his image. Besides, this isn’t his first foray into a similar situation. He’s had several radio guestings before, and he got through all of them unscathed. But because those were months ago, he worries if humor is something he still remembers. He’s aware he can be funny, but it usually happens when he’s unfiltered.

“You look tense,” his manager remarks, pushing an elevator button. He hands him a menthol candy, most likely to calm him down.

However, Seungyoun declines. Instead, he mentally rearranges his opening spill until it makes sense. Like always, it starts with a ‘Good *insert time of day here*,’ followed by his name, and then something about the weather or current trends. For today, it should be:

_Good afternoon. Saying hi is Cho Seungyoun, your guest and co-DJ for the next hour. It’s another chilly day in Seoul. Winter is fast approaching, isn’t it? I wonder, what did everyone do today?_

He doesn’t know the topic yet. Often, for these kinds of shows, the guests are briefed thirty minutes in advance on what is permitted and forbidden to discuss. The general subject is music of course, but there’s usually a specific theme for each program, like breakup songs, or songs when it rains, or songs you can play to feel like you’re in a bar and holding a whiskey glass. At the end of the day, whichever it is, the aim is to bring the audience’s emotions out of their hiding.

“We’re here.”

“Yep,” he answers, fixing the collar of his jacket. His nervousness is at its highest, but he pacifies it with a deep inhale.

The twelfth floor is mostly cubicles with office workers staring into computer screens. Preoccupied with work, they barely pay attention to him, and from how it looks, nothing short of an earthquake will distract them from what they’re doing. Seungyoun passes by them as he walks to the farthest right corner—there, to where a room is located, secluded by thin window blinds and glass walls. An imposing door stands before him. As manners, he wipes the soles of his shoes on the mat before knocking.

“Come in.”

There are two things in Seungyoun’s mind as he sets foot in the radio studio: first is to greet his senior mindfully, and second is to keep his composure in the next hour. As soon as he sees who’s inside however, every single plan he’s stringed together haplessly collapses.

“Ah, you’ve arrived,” a boy casually says, like it’s something they do everyday. Like they see each other all the time, and he hasn’t made him wait for eight Sundays straight.

When Seungyoun researched the radio program, he saw the host’s name as _Han Seungwoo._ It caught his attention, but since he didn’t know about ‘Han,’ he assumed it was only a person with a similar name. Apparently though, he was right to be skittish.

Seungwoo looks good. God, he looks more than that—he’s as scintillating as he was on that day, when he was all golden and dreamy and devastatingly beautiful. Seungyoun settles for ‘ _good’_ anyway to pretend there’s some distance, so he can at least ignore the sudden weight that’s clamping on his chest. He hasn’t remembered him in a while; in fact, he hasn’t thought about him for months. When he took that last train in Euljiro, he also left his silly fancies behind.

Sometimes the memory is so little that he completely forgets it. All he recalls are four train stops: in Euljiro where he was bumped, in Dongdaemun where they started talking comfortably, in Sangwangsimni where they shared opinions about music, and in Wangsimni where they parted as Seungwoo wished him happiness. There were crowds and narrow spaces and tunnels and verdant trees. One afternoon in an orange city, he gazed at him and marveled at the cartography of his skin.

Seungyoun stares at him once more under the glaring fluorescent light. Here he realizes he hasn’t forgotten anything at all.

“Long time no see,” he says, trying not to appear as if he’s seen a ghost. He offers a hand, wondering if it’ll betray the rush of his blood or the warmthness of his cheeks.

“Yeah,” Seungyoun answers, gripping him firmly. He doesn’t take his eyes off him as he speaks. “How have you been?”

“Good. Doing better than I expected.”

“Ah right, I did see Equal on the charts. We play Love Me Harder a lot on the radio, you know. You’d be surprised—sometimes it’s requested in five different shows.”

“Really? I feel grateful.”

“Yup. Seems like it’s popular with teens and young adults.”

“It’s because of your suggested bass. Thank you for that, by the way. I’ve been meaning to tell you so.” Aside from whichever other reason he had, Seungyoun was initially set on finding Seungwoo because he wanted to express his gratitude personally. Now that he did, he feels at peace.

“Rather than me and my menial part, it’s you who should be given a pat on the back. The entire tracklist was amazing, which I’m sure you labored over.”

“Well, it was six months of insufficient sleep...”

“And it paid off.”

“Luckily.” As an afterthought, Seungyoun adds: “Were you in the top ten?”

Seungwoo scrunches his forehead. “Huh?”

“In the first ten listeners. You said you’d be within that, but I’ll be lenient and take whichever place as long as it doesn’t exceed twenty.”

“Oh that. I’m confident. I was on a break when it dropped, so I was able to play it right after the release. Let’s say I was… ninth?”

“And how did you come up with that number?”

“By myself,” Seungwoo says, grinning. “Hey, at least I’m honest enough not to claim a higher place.”

Seungyoun laughs, rolling his eyes playfully, feeling lighter with each passing minute. “Yeah, yeah. Ninth is very much accepted, thank you. So you’re a radio DJ, apparently.”

“Yup. I’ve been one for almost five years now.”

“Explains why you have good listening skills.”

“I think the job helped me approach music objectively?”

“In what way?”

“I don’t know what makes a hit of course; I believe there isn’t a formula for things like that. But I can tell what to improve in a song so the audience will be more interested in hearing it.”

“Which is valuable. Marketability is a big factor, and people pay loads of money just to get it right.”

“I wouldn’t know. You were the first to ask for my opinion. Everything else is a silent, casual observation in my case.” Seungwoo smiles sheepishly, the dimples around his mouth deepening.

“And I luckily did. I feel like everything worked in my favor that day. But where did ancient come from then? You can’t be out of trend when you play songs on the daily.”

“Who says I choose the new ones?,” Seungwoo responds cheekily. “I have an advice corner, not a hit list.”

A staff member approaches to remind them that it’s only five minutes to the show. It makes Seungyoun panic because instead of briefing, they spent the past twenty-five minutes greeting each other. His hands are clammy, and his rapid pulse is constant in his ears. He darts a glance at Seungwoo, only to find him looking as well.

“Don’t worry too much,” Seungwoo reminds as he rolls his neck. “Just follow my lead, and don’t give dead-end responses. Most importantly, don’t curse on live broadcast.”

“You really have to remind guests of the last one?,” Seungyoun asks, incredulous. He proceeds to his seat which is right in front of Seungwoo’s.

“A handful were close to doing so in the past. So now, I make sure everything’s safe.”

Seungyoun reaches for his microphone and checks its feedback, moving the slider channel to clear up the signal and smooth any remaining distortions. He waits as the sound sources are mixed by the staff and sent to the transmitter, transferring it to a server that distributes the audio to listeners (or more commonly known as _streaming_ ). Once it's done, the opening track of the program is played, which approximately takes a whole minute. It’s only a matter of time before he needs to speak.

_Five, four, three, two—_

“Today is nice, isn’t it? The leaves are mostly brown, and the wind is at its coldest since November started. I wore my favorite coat which instantly lifted up my mood, so if you’re having a rough day, you can try this neat trick. Good afternoon, this is Han Seungwoo. I’m here again to bring you songs and hopefully some strength since tomorrow is another work day. But I’m not alone—I have someone with me who I think you will like.”

It’s Seungyoun’s turn. He straightens his posture before inhaling deeply, filling his lungs with stale air conditioned breeze. Ideally, it should be the outside air, but oh well, one can’t truly have it all. “Good afternoon to everyone who’s listening. This is Cho Seungyoun, and I am currently promoting as Woodz,” he starts. “I hope you remember me from the song ‘Love Me Harder.’ I’ll try my best to help Seungwoo in giving you tunes which are both comforting and motivating. Please guide me well today, thank you.”

“Alright. Since we have Woodz, we’re starting off with his song. It’s not the title track, but a personal favorite of mine. This one is called Waikiki—something to help us feel like we’re on a beach. Enjoy.”

As the microphone is muted, Seungyoun takes a chance to sip from his water tumbler. Somehow, like their first and only encounter, he finds it easy to be natural with him. If this continues, the program should flow smoothly.

Only there’s a problem: he can’t hear his thoughts over his heartbeat.

“Like always, we’ll read three of your letters and try to answer them as best as we can. Please remember that these are our personal opinions, and following them will be at your own discretion. Think of it as friendly advice. You don’t listen to your friends, right?,” Seungwoo jokes, obviously at ease with what he’s doing. “Now that’s cleared up, let’s proceed. Would you like to read the first one, Seungyoun?”

“Ah, yes,” Seungyoun answers before referring to the script. “The first sender is named Kim Hyewon who wants to know how to make time for hobbies when she’s busy at work. She’s into Ikebana but can’t go to lessons because she’s too tired on weekends.”

Seungwoo touches his chin, pondering. “Hm, first of all, hello Hyewon. I hope you’re doing great. Congratulations on finding a hobby! It’s hard for people to find interests, so having one is already a step forward. Regarding schedules, maybe you can try attending once every two weeks? Or even just once a month? Does your academy allow for that kind of setup? What do you think, Seungyoun?”

“Aren’t there online classes? You can buy flowers on your way home on a Friday night, then put them in vases and use them for lessons the next day. That way, you won’t have to make a separate trip for the plants. You won’t have to go out of the house too.”

“Ah, that’s true too. Online is the way to go these days, especially if time is insufficient.”

“Do you have a hobby, Seungwoo?”

“I like gaming. Soccer, MMORPG, those things. And predictably, music. Listening to it is my number one stress relief.”

“We’re similar. As someone who makes a living out of it, there are times when we tweak a song for four straight days and hear nothing else. After that grueling ordeal, my usual solace is to play my favorite songs. I do the same with other difficulties as well—I like using music to heal the burden of music,” Seungyoun openly admits. Right now, he’s at his most frank, which isn’t a mood he often falls into. Because see, the first thing this industry teaches people is to discard their emotions.

Seungwoo, most likely affected by the honesty, becomes more serious and thoughtful as well, his voice turning even softer than it already is. “I feel strongly about hobbies because they can make such a difference. When people have that one thing they really love, they also have something to lean on during hard times. Of course, a person offers a different kind of support, but having activities to distract you also helps.”

“Yeah. That’s why I want the listener’s problem to be resolved. Whether the hobby is helping her now or will help her in the future, bottomline is it’ll be useful at some point. Please try the online route, Hyewon. We’re rooting for you!”

“We hope our answer was practical. Fighting, Hyewon! Now, let’s choose the next track. How about Wi Ing Wi Ing by Hyukoh? When I first heard it six years ago, I immediately thought of it as my life anthem. One part of the lyrics goes ‘there’s nothing to make my heart flutter,’ which is an astonishingly easy state to be in. So if your heart is fluttering now, hold on to what’s making it that way.”

He knows that isn’t directed at him, but Seungyoun has the sudden urge to clutch his chest. That irregular rhythm he can’t comprehend, going deep and shallow all the same. Spreading across his body and mind, going five and fifteen and fifty miles a second. Going like he’s evaporating into thin air. Going, going, and go—

He stares at Seungwoo in a different slant, under a light he believes to have already gone out. Here he realizes he hasn’t fooled himself at all.

The rest of the program carries on with him in a daze. Seungyoun still answers the questions precisely, speaking in that casual and high-pitched way of his. But his thoughts are welling somewhere else—to a place seven kilometers away, where he feels both dynamic and idle. It hasn’t been long, yet he’s changed at least ten times since he left it.

“Wow, would you look at that? We’re in the last quarter of the program,” Seungwoo remarks as he signals to the staff. “Time flew by, and just like so, this next letter is already our third. Before anything, we want to thank everyone for tuning in. Please leave us letters in our inbox, or even just messages of who you want our next guest to be. Oh, and as a note, we allow repetitions. So if you want Seungyoun to be here again, all you have to do is flood us with requests! Speaking of, here he is. Seungyoun, please accommodate our last sender.”

Every time Seungwoo says his name, Seungyoun bites his lips in order to contain himself. And for the past forty-five minutes, he’s been biting way too hard that he won’t be surprised to find it bleeding when they end. He looks at the text but the words won’t lift, seemingly glued to the page.

“Okay. Seungyoun is still loading. Probably overwhelmed by the letter? Let’s wait for him to restart,” Seungwoo jokes. He tilts his head to the side, smiling at him encouragingly.

“This comes from Lee Minyoung,” Seungyoun begins, wondering if he can read the following message without faltering. “She met a stranger on the train whom she talked to comfortably until she reached her stop. According to her, it was a bizarre but pleasant experience, and she won’t be opposed to it happening again. Unfortunately, they didn’t leave any contact details with each other, so she doesn’t know what to do next. Since then, she’s tried twice to board at the same time and day, but they were to no avail. Her questions are: _Is she being stupid? Is it naive to trust a mere coincidence?_ ”

They become silent after that. He, in particular, is lost in the same rusting memory. But Seungwoo’s face tells him that he hasn’t forgotten too. That probably, it is all he’s thinking about. The weight of his gaze humbles Seungyoun into confessing.

“You’re not being stupid, Minyoung,” he continues. Whether he’s addressing the listener or himself, he can’t distinguish. “I was in a similar situation. In fact, I came back for two months.”

“Two months?,” Seungwoo echoes. His hand trembles a bit, rattled by the information suddenly dumped into him.

“Every Sunday, unfailingly. Sometimes for thirty minutes, sometimes for an hour. The thing about depending on coincidences is that you have to be ready for a letdown. For the eight times that I came back, I never won once.”

“I—”

“However, it was no one’s fault. Or maybe it was mine because I chose to hold on to something fickle. Was I disappointed? Of course. Nothing materialized each time. But do I regret it? Not really. So Minyoung, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with us. That’s what I’m aware of, at least,” Seungyoun says, grinning in jest. “Just don’t expect too much. And please stay safe. If something makes you uneasy, leave at once. Don’t entertain them in dark and deserted places. At the end of the day, these are strangers, and we don’t know them personally.”

“What does it mean when they see each other again though?,” Seungwoo asks, now more composed. There’s determination in his gaze, coupled by something unrecognizable. “Meeting once and not meeting at all after, and then suddenly meeting again, far from the place they expected?”

“Then it’s another coincidence,” Seungyoun answers with a shrug. “Though it wouldn’t be wise to let the chance go without catching up. What do you think, Seungwoo?”

  
  
  
  
  


“I waited for two months too.”

Seungyoun returns the coffee mug to its saucer. The drink sloshes from how hard he places it, some of it spilling over the rim. For all his braveness earlier, he sure became meek. His palms are warm, his emotions are raw, and he can’t keep his legs still.

He basically invited Seungwoo out with how he responded to the last letter. But more than a romantic insinuation, what he wanted was an opportunity to talk about a memory. That day, or the days which came after that. Or _hell,_ just for them to talk about anything, because he always found it unfair how their time was cut short.

He knows, and he’ll be the first to admit it too, that it’s silly how something so insignificant impacted him. In reality, the moment barely lasted fifteen minutes, and there wasn’t anything dramatic about it, like kissing or grand gestures. It was just a conversation—plain, impersonal, far from life-altering. But he’s always been like this: pulled along by the littlest things.

“What do you mean ‘too’?,” he asks, confused. “I was there the entire time and I didn’t see you.”

“Because you waited right after that Sunday and I waited after you,” Seungwoo answers, taking a sip of his own drink. Unlike him, he looks calm. Seungyoun envies his peace.

“Huh? I don’t get what you mean.”

“When we met, I told you I was finishing a project. I did so within the week—on Wednesday, specifically. So on that Wednesday, I went to the station at five-thirty in hopes of you being there, even though it was a different day.”

“And I wasn’t.”

“Yes. When the clock turned six, I gave up.”

“We were on the last stages of Equal that time. I would go to the studio every Monday and sleep there throughout the week. I only left for home on Sundays. I was only on the train for two days a week.”

Seungwoo nods, understanding. “I figured that was the case when the same happened on Thursday. And come Friday, I had to depart for a radio program we were launching by the following week. I was originally stationed in Busan back then. I was only in Seoul for the temporary project.”

“So when I came on Sunday, you were already in Busan. We really had no chances of meeting then, and so were the Sundays after that,” Seungyoun concludes. The circumstances finally make sense, and it leaves him unsettled, with a bad taste in his mouth that sours everything he ingests. It was easier to chalk things up to different time frames rather than being confronted with the truth that there wasn’t really a possibility in the first place. It renders all of his waiting futile. Now, he feels like a fool for hoping.

“I returned though,” Seungwoo resumes, staring at him. He’s set on airing his side, perceptible in his unfaltering words. Not that there’s anything to explain—they don’t owe anything to each other. “I was re-stationed in Seoul after two months. The first thing I did was to visit Euljiro. No matter how many times I went around the area or boarded the train though, I couldn’t find you.”

“Which month was this?”

“I’ve been waiting for two months. I started in September, and just last week, I was in Line 2.”

Seungyoun can only laugh at the sheer peculiarity of the situation. “I stopped going to Euljiro in August,” he says, shaking his head.

The coincidence which brought them together before was, of course, the driving force behind them not meeting again. And right now, it works once more as a catalyst. Timing is the impetus for most things; of collisions and almost encounters and new beginnings.

“I initially planned to invite you as a guest even way before. You only knew me as Seungwoo, but I had your complete and stage names, plus the title of your album. And even if I didn’t have them, I’d be able to locate you—when Equal was released, you were everywhere.”

“And you knew how the song went too.”

“Precisely. Back then, I thought if I wanted something to materialize, I’d have to approach you first. However, I realized how terrifying that sounded. What if I was the only one interested?,” Seungwoo says, studying the gentle swirl of his coffee. “The method seemed so backhanded too. That’s why I resorted to waiting first: to ask permission and all, or establish some sort of friendship before I intrude on your life. But it didn’t happen, and I became desperate. Like you, I was at the train station every week, only to end up disappointed. And sad—even though I couldn’t fathom why. But at this moment, I think I know the reason.”

Seungyoun faces him then. “And what is that?,” he dares.

“I just wanted to see you again. It’s weird to say this, but I really, really wished I would. To the point that whenever it didn’t happen, it felt like the world was working against me.”

The café is down to its last two customers: them and a group of workers who are loud enough to fill their silence. Seungyoun picks a croissant and tears it into half—a poor attempt to corner his wayward thoughts. Because right now, all he wants is to reach for Seungwoo’s hand, but he can’t as it’s not something he’s afforded yet. So instead, he reciprocates the honesty he’s been given.

“It’s not weird when we’re the same. Why do you think we waited that long? To me, it was because I couldn’t accept something like that only happening once,” he says. “Still, I eventually had to. But I can’t deny I’ve been hoping all along.”

Seungwoo clasps his hands together. He roams his gaze around before resting it on him, its gravity not lost despite the dim lights. The sudden change in atmosphere suggests a turning point—and as expected, it comes. “Do you want to give this a try? Like see where this goes? I’m not saying we should be in a relationship this instant. Maybe we can start as friends and be open to the idea that it can be more? If it doesn’t and if you don’t want to, that’s totally fine with me.”

 _It’s so strange,_ Seungyoun muses as he softly stares at him, feeling free and weightless, there in a place full of dried flowers and hanging sage. It’s so strange because he wanted the memory to thrive at first and then to languish, and now it’s spiraling when he least expects it. That he is acting like this over a person he barely knows, and a person is acting like this over him.

It’s so strange that he yearns to understand it. One at a time. All at once. Bit by bit until it consumes him.

“Yeah,” he answers, short of breath. And then more firmly: “I’d love to.”

  
  
  
  
  


**day 211 ; happy together?**

At exactly five-thirty in the afternoon, Seungyoun enters a restaurant four blocks from his apartment, wearing a suit he usually reserves for special occasions. It’s one of those classy, high-end establishments which serve too little food and too much plate, all for prices which can seriously dent a wallet. However, their steak is to die for, and they have a dedicated marble wall for liquor and imported wine. Because both are Seungwoo’s favorites, he surmises these as the reasons for this reservation. Otherwise, the older isn’t a fan of fancy stuff—he'd rather drown in cheap instant ramen all day.

Unlike before, there’s a lot that Seungyoun knows about him now: he likes coffee, he turns off the lights when they’re not in use, and he’s the most tolerable clean freak and morning person he’s ever met. He owns a tabby named Wong Cat Wai, which is covered in orange fur and bright pink paws. Aloof and with a picky appetite, it’s a direct contrast of its owner. Nonetheless, his most important discovery is Seungwoo not being a serial killer—it’s impossible with how he fidgets whenever he’s nervous. Like presently: he looks like he’s about to bounce off his seat.

“Are you okay?,” Seungyoun asks as he signals for a waiter. He repeats his orders of steak and red wine, butchering every single French word. 

Yet, all throughout, Seungwoo remains straight-faced. Which is already telling because on a normal day, he would’ve laughed at his blunders. “Yeah. Just a bit on the edge.”

“Why? New projects?”

“Not really. But I’ll tell you later.”

Their table is silent after that. Seungyoun racks his brain for anything he could’ve done wrong, even backtracking as far as two weeks ago. Did he say something? Do something? As far as he remembers, they were fine in the past days. Not only fine—they were actually doing great. They’ve always been doing great, especially in terms of maintaining a friendship while being cognizant of their intentions. There are no mind games because they know what they want from each other. The only thing they’re doing is biding their time.

If Seungwoo changed his mind though—

He takes another bite of the newly-arrived steak, hoping to distract himself from reading too much into the situation. Contemplating won’t help and will only make him anxious, which in turn will ruin the mood of this dinner. Maybe Seungwoo’s having an off day. Everyone has that, even Seungyoun. Whenever it happens, he often behaves like this as well.

Still, he can’t avoid being bothered. If something has really changed between them, then it will mean unrequited feelings on his part. He can live with that and continue on with just friendship, _no problem,_ but it’ll surely be agonizing. Especially now that he’s nurtured expectations. He tried his best not to, but they’re there, buried in the endings of his body. How can he not? Throughout this whole fanfare, hope is the only thing that’s been constant. And the thing about hope is that it’s fluid, so it tends to spill over into everything: when Seungwoo buys him random trinkets, when he lets him use his shoulders for whatever purpose, when he brings food in the middle of a long work day, when they finish each other’s sentences, or their hands get a little too close to touching. It flows the strongest when Seungwoo looks at him reverently, and Seungyoun feels himself looking at him just the same. As much as he wants to hold it back, it has a way of making itself known.

He refills his wine glass until it’s half full. The quiet atmosphere suggests a turning point, and whether it’s for the better or for the worse, he’ll need some liquid courage to make it through. In a moment, he will accede and give in to his feelings. The only thing they’ve been doing is biding their time—to him, it’s finally close to being up. 

But apparently, it’s also what Seungwoo has in mind as well, because amid their meal, in a place full of high-profiles and silk accents, he casually drops the weight. One they’ve been trying to get out all this time but has been lost in missteps and hesitations. Ironically, the more they became comfortable with each other, the harder the topic was to approach. There was always a tiny voice which thwarted every attempt, at the back of their minds saying ‘he doesn’t like you that way.’

But in a second, just like that, Seungwoo bridges the gap they’re taking forever to cross. By simply taking his hand and asking: _Seungyoun, what do you think about formally becoming boyfriends?_ His perfectly neutral expression makes it look easy, but the tremble in his tone betrays his strain.

“I…,” Seungyoun trails, suddenly at a loss. He’s always visualized himself as the one asking the question, so the reversal floors him enough to leave him speechless. There’s so much that he wants to say—a thousand yes-es, you make me the happiest, I adore you deeply—but nothing makes it past his mouth. Blank, he can only gape and bask in the other’s effulgence.

Understandably, Seungwoo mistakes his surprise for rejection. His face gradually becomes crestfallen, and he forces his gaze back on the plate. The warmth of his hand is gone and is replaced by detachment. “Ah, I’m sorry. It seems I misinterpreted—”

 _No,_ Seungyoun mentally shouts. The desperation forces him to act rashly, standing from his seat and grabbing the other’s suit lapels from across the table. He pulls him close until their faces are inches apart and lets their lips meet for the first time.

What he realizes is this: every shift was a shuffling. It rearranged his edges until they can’t tell anymore what it’s like to be without him. 

It’s so strange how he can’t find it in himself to care about anything else then—not the customers looking or the waiters clapping, nor the possibility of the story leaking to press and making it to the papers. But aside from the elderly patrons, everyone in this restaurant is friends with him, and he knows he can trust them with keeping this a secret. Seungwoo is aware of this fact as well, which is probably why he chose this place in advance. In an ideal world, they’d be free to profess about these matters. But they’re not, and they have no choice but to conform to that.

So in the meantime, they’ll have to keep this to themselves. It’ll be maddening, but it’ll be wonderful too. How can Seungyoun be sure? A lifetime of experiences rush through him, ghosting his mind with emotions, awareness, and a perspective of what love has always been for him. The way it seeps in, its vulnerability, how it’s both pliable and compact, how it upheaves lives around and makes it far from what it used to be. It brings him to the memory of a train and a sunset, and his senses are filled with its fragments despite being enclosed in a walled space. 

In short, he just knows. He smiles into the kiss, eyes shining and close to tears.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t tried boarding the Korean subway so I’m sorry for any inaccuracies. Still, I hope you enjoyed! :)
> 
> Title is taken off Wong Kar-Wai’s Happy Together (and the name of the cat is from his name hh). While writing the first part, I kept on remembering the movie’s ending train scene. Also, according to [this](https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2019/09/03/the-brief-idyll-of-late-90s-wong-kar-wai/) and [this](https://chinese.yabla.com/chinese-english-pinyin-dictionary.php?define=%E6%98%A5%E5%85%89%E4%B9%8D%E6%B3%84/), “the film’s original title is 春光乍洩, which means the first emergence of spring sunshine—or, more idiomatically, a glimpse of something intimate.” Which I think is fitting for this story as well, so I included it. But I don’t know the language firsthand so please correct me if it’s wrong :(
> 
> The beginning quote is from a song called [Happy Together](https://youtu.be/fqNzjkBCYv4) (which was used in the film too)
> 
> Anyway, if you made it here, thank you! ♡
> 
> /EDIT: Since reveals day is done, you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/visibleblues) haha. Thank you again for reading!


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